


The Lost Targaryen

by Valar_Fandomis_ (MelodyRavenclawOfAsgard)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyRavenclawOfAsgard/pseuds/Valar_Fandomis_
Summary: Unknown to the Mad King and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaella Targaryen birthed another child who was spirited away from the castle at King's Landing, and hidden away in a remote village to protect her from her father during his descent into madness. This is the story of Valaena Targaryen, Princess of Dragons, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and plotlines belong to GRRM, except for Valaena and my plot :)

Queen Rhaella Targaryen's screams echoed through the halls of the castle at King's Landing, bouncing off the soaring walls and ceiling of the throne room, where the Iron Throne stood in all its glory. A silvery sheen of sweat shone on her brow as her body strained and her back arched off of her bed. Another scream forced its way through her clenched teeth and her hands fisted the silken sheets she lay on.

"Not much longer, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle said in a reassuring tone, "Just a push or two more."

Rhaella groaned, drew in a deep breath, shut her eyes, and pushed, every muscle in her lithe body tense and shaking. Seconds later, a high pitched wail filled the air, and she slumped back down onto the covers, breathing heavily. Pycelle lifted the baby, and a look of delight spread over his wizened features.

"Congratulations, Your Grace!" He exclaimed. Rhaella cracked open one eye and gave the Grand Maester an inquiring look. He held up the swaddled infant for her to see.

"A girl, Your Grace." He stated, his eyes shining. A wondrous smile spread over the Queen's face, and she held out her arms to the Maester, who carefully placed the babe in her arms. Rhaella beamed down at her child, marveling at the tiny, perfect features and dark hair already present on the baby's head. The baby opened her eyes, and Rhaella gasped. Her eyes were as green as a leaf, with violet specks and a ring of silver around the iris.

"Your Grace…?" Pycelle ventured, inching closer to the bed. Rhaella glanced up at him, then back to the infant in her arms.

"Her eyes…" Rhaella breathed, fixated on the newborn, "They're not completely violet."

Worry flashed over the Grand Maester's face, and he shifted even closer to the bed.

'"Your Grace, forgive me for being blunt, but… She is… trueborn, yes?"

Rhaella looked affronted, and when she looked up at Pycelle, her eyes were pits of violet fire.

"Yes." Her reply was stony and cold. Pycelle cringed away slightly, the movement barely perceivable, and Rhaella's eyes softened.

"Forgive me, Grand Maester," she sighed, "My husband is a very suspicious man, and has long been obsessed with the idea that I was unfaithful during…." She trailed off, pain becoming apparent in her voice. For a time, all of her pregnancies were miscarriages, stillborns, or early deaths, and Aerys believed that it was because she was being unfaithful to him. He grew obsessive, and forced two septas to sleep in her bed with her each night. He did calm down after Viserys was born, but Rhaella knew that the obsessiveness was still there, just waiting for an excuse to reveal itself.

And her newborn baby girl, who lacked their trademark silver hair and violet eyes, would be the perfect one. While she was not the first to have features that differed from her Targaryen parents, in his current state, Aerys would think she was a bastard, and have her killed on the spot, damn the repercussions. And if he was feeling particularly creative, he'd have her burned alive while Rhaella watched, just to ensure that the "message" was delivered in full. A chill ran down her spine at the thought, and in that moment, she knew the sacrifice she was going to have to make.

"Grand Maester Pycelle," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. He looked up at her inquisitively, and his face fell at the look of resignation Rhaella wore like a mask.

"Your Grace, surely you don't mean-"

"You know what he will do." Her eyes met his and held them fast., "He will kill her because she doesn't look like the others. This is the only way she'll be sure to survive. Please Grand Maester, I trust you with my life. Now I'm trusting you with hers."

A heavy weight settled across the older man's shoulders, and he stared deep into his Queen's eyes before nodding in consent.

"What would you have me do, Your Grace?" His voice was flat, and his eyes full of sorrow.

"We must keep this as discreet as possible. Aerys will be returning home soon, and we cannot afford to have him find out. I'll need you to write a letter, telling whoever receives it to take care of my daughter, and raise her as one of their own. Make sure that it's signed and sealed from me before it's sent, and comes with a purse of coins to cover anything they have to purchase for her." Rhaella took a deep breath, then continued, "Then find a trustworthy wet nurse whose absence will not be noticed, and bring her to me. She does not have to be on the castle staff, just find one."

"As you wish, Your Grace. Would you like to name her before I write up the letter?" His voice wavered slightly.

"Yes." Rhaella replied, her gaze dropping back to the child now sleeping in the cradle of her arms. She paused, then looked up again, a smile playing around the edge of her lips.

"Her name is Valaena. Valaena Targaryen." She savored the taste of the name in her mouth. Pycelle's eyes crinkled as he smiled in approval.

"A name fit for a princess." He remarked, "I shall return momentarily, Your Grace."

Rhaella nodded, and the Grand Maester left the room. She finally let the tears that had been building up fall, soaking into the fabric of her sleeping silks and the cloth that Valaena was swaddled in. After what felt like hours, Pycelle returned, a roll of parchment in hand and a purse in the other, with a younger woman trailing behind him. Rhaella sat up and did her best to look like the regal Queen her people were used to seeing.

"I assume that the Grand Maester has informed you of the current… situation?" Rhaella asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"For the most part, Your Grace." She replied. She had long black hair and startlingly blue eyes, and her voice was clear and lovely.

"Good. Then you understand the level of secrecy we must maintain." When the girl nodded, Rhaella continued, "You will ride north with my daughter until you find a remote village with plenty of people and children, and no sign of my husband's soldiers. Once there, you will ask around quietly to see if there are any married couples who have been unable to bear children. If there are, seek them out and make sure they are lacking children and desire one, then ask them to invite you into their home and give them my letter. If there are no such couples, you will ride to the next village and the next until you find one."

At this point Rhaella looked the girl straight in the eye and asked, "Can I trust you to keep this to yourself and keep my daughter safe?"

"Yes Your Grace. I swear to the seven that I will keep your little girl safe, or die trying." Rhaella could hear the honesty and loyalty in the girl's voice, and gave her a half smile. She kissed Valaena's forehead, then reached behind her and unclasped one of her necklaces. It was a long silver chain with a pendant dangling in the middle and had belonged to her mother. The pendant was a silver dragon with black dragonglass wings and gleaming ruby eyes, and its tail was curled up so as to hold a large dark ruby in place. Rhaella put the chain around Valaena's neck and tucked the pendant beneath the cloth wrapping her up. She leaned in close to the baby and whispered in her ear, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha raqiarzy tala." Rhaella handed Valaena to the wet nurse, and leaned back against her pillows as Pycelle ushered her out of the room. The heavy door shut, and Rhaella wept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jon POV:**

 

Jon awoke to the muffled sound of terrified screams that cut off just as soon as they had started. Judging by the closeness, they had to be coming from the baths, which were right down the hall from his sleeping cell. Jon rolled out of his bed, hurriedly threw on his clothes and fastened his fur cloak around his shoulders, then ran out of his cell towards the origin of the screams. He darted through the halls past the armory, narrowly avoiding running over several of his brothers, and shouldered open the doors to the baths. Against the side wall was a naked wildling girl, recently taken prisoner with Mance Rayder and his camp, who was being pinned against the stone by one of Stannis’ men. He had one gloved hand wrapped around her slender neck, and the other was holding her wrists above her head. There was blood trickling down the side of his face where her nails had obviously gouged him deep, and fury and lust were etched into the lines of his ugly face.

 

    Jon drew Longclaw from the sheath at his side, reached out, and grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, yanking him off of the girl, who crumpled to the floor coughing. The man whirled around, a snarl on his face.

 

    “What’re you doin’ boy? There’s plenty of these wild whores to go around-” Jon silenced him with a powerful blow to the face, and the man went down at Jon’s feet. He stepped over the limp body, taking care to tread on his fingers, and feeling satisfied when he heard a resounding  _ crack _ . Keeping his pace slow, he approached the wildling girl, who was crouched against the stone wall with the expression of a cornered animal plastered across her features. For a split second, his mind flashed back to when he first met Ygritte, fiery defiance still burning in her eyes despite the fact that the point of his sword was up against her throat. He could see that defiance on the girl’s face now, equal parts fire and fear.

 

    “Relax,” he told her, “If I was going to hurt you, I’d have done it already.” 

 

    She didn’t look convinced. Jon didn’t blame her. 

 

    “What’s your name?” He asked in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

 

    Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and he was briefly mesmerized by the colors. They were green as emeralds, with what appeared to be a ring of silver around the pupils. 

 

    “Asra.” The pitch of her voice went higher at the end, so it sounded like a question rather than a statement.  _ Not her real name, _ he thought to himself. 

 

    “I’m Jon Snow.” He replied. A curious expression flashed over her face, but it was gone as soon as it had come. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.

 

    Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he reached up and unfastened his black cloak. He stepped forward and gently covered her with the furs. The so-called Asra flinched, then relaxed as she wrapped his cloak around her bare shoulders. Feeling strangely naked without the warm weight of the fur around him, Jon held out his gloved hand to the girl. 

 

    “We’d best be getting you out of here,” he murmured, “He’ll be wanting blood when he wakes, and if you’re still here when he does, he won’t be inclined to let you go again.”

 

    She hesitated, then reached out and took his hand. She pulled herself up to her feet, and walked over to a small table by the wall where bathers could leave their belongings. He felt a rush of anger sweep over him when she turned back around at the sight of the dark hand shaped bruises already blossoming on her wrists and throat, but pushed it aside. The last thing she needed right now was for him to cause a scene and frighten her after her ordeal. He carefully placed his hand on the girl’s back between her shoulder blades and guided her out of the baths.

 

**Asra POV:**

 

    The fur around my shoulders was thick and warm, and I was grateful for it as Jon Snow lead me through the halls. Thankfully all of the men were inside, or else I knew that we would be getting rather strange looks. We climbed a set of stairs and went through another hall until Jon stopped at a heavy wooden door. He shot me a look that clearly said not to follow, and went in. I pulled his cloak tighter around my body and shivered. My necklace that I had retrieved from the baths was frigid in my palm, the cold biting deeper and deeper with each passing second. I could hear murmuring in the room, and the sound of a chest being opened. Jon came out a minute later with a small bundle of cloth and a pair of black boots, and briskly set off down the hall. We walked a few doors down, until we came to another wood door. This one had deep scratches on the bottom half, as if the wood had been clawed. Jon pushed it open, and held it, gesturing for me to enter. 

 

    Giving a slight nod, I walked past him into what could only be his bedchamber. It was very modest; it had a bed in one corner with a candle burning a safe distance away, and a chest in the other corner, presumably of his clothes. I turned back to face him, and he motioned for me to sit on the bed. I did. It was surprisingly comfortable compared to the cot I’d been sleeping on for the past couple nights.

 

    Jon rummaged through the chest in the corner, and I took the opportunity to study him. He was tall and lean, all muscle. He had curly black hair that fell to his shoulders, full lips, stubble across his jaw and a faint mustache. I averted my gaze as he straightened up, and focused intently on the flickering light of the lit candle. Moments later, another bundle of cloth, this one black, was dropped in my lap next to the first. 

 

    “Thank you.” I said, separating out the bundles. The first was a set of woman’s smallclothes, the other roughspun breeches and a shirt. 

 

    “I’ll be outside,” he replied, “Knock if you need anything.” And with that, he turned and walked out. 

 

    I dressed quickly, taking care to knot the breeches without damaging them, then I pulled the shirt over my head, and adjusted it so I was fully covered. I pulled my hair out of its intricately braided updo and combed it with my fingers until it fell to my waist in silky waves, then slipped my necklace back on, taking care to tuck the pendant beneath my shirt.. Still feeling a chill, I wrapped Jon’s cloak back around me and sat down on the bed. A million thoughts were racing through my mind, but the one at the very front was Jon Snow. The name sounded annoyingly familiar, as if I’d heard it before. I pressed the heels of my palms against my forehead and fought to remember where I’d heard the name before. I looked back up at the candle, its flame flickering merrily, casting long shadows over the stone walls.

 

_ Kissed by fire… _ The thought came whispering and floating into my head, and I knew. This was Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. The crow who rode with the Free Folk as a spy. The man who climbed the Wall with Styr, then fled back to Castle Black after the group was attacked by wolves. This was the Jon Snow Ygritte constantly talked about killing before she’d gone to attack Castle Black and never came back out. 

 

    I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding, then looked back up at the worn and scratched door. 

 

    “You can come back in now!” I called, bracing myself for the questions to come.

 

**Jon POV:**

 

    Jon strode back into his rooms, a cold breeze following him in. He shut the door over, then turned to look at the wildling girl sitting on his bed. She was roughly half a head head shorter than him, coming up to the bottom of his nose, with clear, pale skin devoid of any blemishes. Her hair came down to her waist in thick brown waves, and had thin streaks of silvery-white scattered throughout it with a matching lock on either side of her face. This offset her eyes nicely, which he noticed had flecks of purple blending smoothly with the green and silver he had seen before. 

 

    His gaze focused on a silver chain gleaming under the shirt he had given her. Without even thinking about it, he blurted it out.

 

    “What’s that around your neck?”

 

    She arched one dark eyebrow at him. 

 

    “I believe it’s called a necklace,” she replied, her voice thick with mockery, “Ladies tend to wear them as jewelry when they want to look nice, or when said necklace possesses sentimental value.”

 

    “May I see it?” He asked. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she was judging whether or not he’d try to take it. She must have deemed him trustworthy, because after a moment she nodded and pulled the chain out from under the shirt. She dangled it from her fingers so he could see. It was a silver dragon, with glossy black wings and bright red eyes, and a dark ruby nestled in the curl of its tail. 

 

    “It was my mother’s,” she explained, “She gave it to me when I was born, and I’ve kept it on ever since. She said it was a family heirloom.”

 

    Jon made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat, and continued studying the pendant. The silver looked real, as did the ruby in its tail and eyes. It was clean and polished, without a scratch in sight. Jon looked up at the girl, who tucked the necklace back under her shirt. 

 

    “Now where does a wildling woman get that kind of necklace, all polished and unscratched?”

 

   She looked startled and uncomfortable, her gaze purposely avoiding his face. She shifted slightly on his bed, her fingers clutching at the fur on his cloak. Jon sighed.

 

    “Your name’s not truly Asra, is it?” She shook her head slightly, keeping her gaze lowered. He let his gaze sweep over her once again. She had a wildling look about her, but not the kind Ygritte or Styr or Tormund had had. Right then, she looked more like Mance than any of the others, and the sudden realization struck him.

 

    “You’re not one of the Free Folk…” He breathed, “At least not truly. You weren’t born and raised with them, were you?”

 

    Something akin to relief tinted her features, and she shook her head again, biting her lip as she did so. She raised her eyes to meet his, and all he could see was green and purple and silver.

 

    “Who are you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Avy jorrāelan, ñuha raqiarzy tala: I love you, my beloved daughter.


End file.
